He was tired, he was hungry and thirsty, and he was doing his best to not let it show. Still, Bobby figured that his friends had to have noticed that he was beginning to struggle with it all. Rachel being there was helping him, but she still left him uneasy. Neill was quieter as well. He supposed that swapping Ray out for Rachel didn't sit well with him, not that any of them could have done anything about it.

He reckoned by now that they had to have been there a week, but he was beginning to lose track of what day it was. It felt like a Tuesday, and he'd never been a fan of Tuesdays. Never knew why, just didn’t like them. It was the closest thing he felt to a superstition.

Bobby had been idling an idea in his head as he walked, his hand playing with the pressurised canister he still kept in his pocket. He'd been given this weapon for a reason. He had to believe that, as much as he couldn't believe that it was for him to kill. He just had to figure out what it was. He knew that there was some way he could use it to help them. As he walked, he ran his finger round the collar at his throat, trying not to interfere with it to much, but enough to ease the chafing.

The travel was quiet, and the weather remained pleasant. He'd thanked God for the sun every night before he'd went to sleep, knowing that if the rain came, everything would go downhill form there. Even better, they'd found a fresh supply of running water. He slaked his thirst directly from the stream before emptying out the stale water from his canteens and replacing it. Now, if there was only a way to make what little stale bread they had left more palatable.

The water find helped to raise Neill's spirits as well. He was laughing and playing. Good signs, Bobby thought. He was coping very well, under the circumstances. And then came the question.

"I'd like to think not much. This place is too nice to be somebody's last resting place. At most, somebody passing through dropped it or tossed it."